


Deuces and a King

by dai



Category: Havemercy - Bennett and Jones
Genre: 1000-3000 words, First Kiss, M/M, POV First Person, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:30:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dai/pseuds/dai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New blood: that's Thom. Someone had to pass the torch; Balfour's just sorry he was the one to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deuces and a King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Etanseline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etanseline/gifts).



**THOM**

 

Things - for better or worse; though usually, worse - always happened in pairs. Such an anomaly to be noticed during those serene moments in the Airman, far and few between that they were.

For example, mostly, I wasn't sleeping, and mostly, it was Rook. Surely, I could have blamed everything on that horror of a man and suffered no ill-will for it: the lumps in the couch, how my neck throbbed from uncomfortable half dozes I strangely drifted into when I managed, the complete and utter lack of privacy. Rook seemed certain it was his sole occupation in life when not preoccupied otherwise. Usually flying, rotation a complicated matter I had yet to care to decipher despite the Chief Sergeant's prior explanation; only I knew when he was _gone_ and my nights were made easier.

Not devoid of torment, no, but _easier_.

For instance, Rook favored using the other airmen in his stead: this much I knew. Pairing them together by specific capability and compatibility, though all of them - in times of a great, cause-worthy need - worked considerably well together. (Another observation I'd already noted days before.) I had never noticed much protest between them, so perhaps they loved him for it. Or respected such outstanding bravado. But that only made me prone to an odd sort of laughing whenever I had the thought.

There was nothing so lovable about a blond, blue-braided tyrant as far as I could see.

And that second _quiet_ morning of the week wasn't so quiet at all. I'd woken to a rather fine example of such teamwork, papers again ripped to pieces and glasses missing. I sat on the edge of the couch with a grim sort of frown and hands interlocked, white at the knuckles from how tightly I gripped my own fingers. Vandalism - it seemed a favorite of theirs. The likeliness I could single out any one of them for it hardly appeared sane. The end result was not one I'd hoped for; half a day gone, and I found them part of Madeline's papier-mâché body in the common room, frames on her face and lenses adorning her neck like jewelry.

It was a grotesque affair, scratching at dried glue to remove all the pieces without further damage to the glasses. They were fairly stuck, having probably sat for hours while I feigned sleep - and poorly, too. Repetitive little motions to coax it free. Part of it bent awkwardly outward the moment I pulled, and the reverberation of it slid down both arms in a tremble of anger.

"Bastion!" I swore under my breath. "This is most _certainly_ not funny. At all."

"Not to a baby like you, it ain't."

When I turned around, words sinking like a stone into the pit of my stomach, I immediately wished I hadn't. Rook stood in the doorway with the lazy grace of a feline, the curl of his lips smooth and teeth sharp in the twist of his smile. He was a messy ensemble of clothes, shirt half tucked into his trousers, and his boots were just as slouched as I remembered them, tall but falling. Inevitably trapped like a mouse. I chose to ignore him despite the necessary inclination to correct him, returning to plucking at the dried glue in half-hearted distraction.

"We had a bet going," he continued, stepping into the room without a care as to what I was doing. "No one thought you could find 'em but Balfour, and like anybody fucking cares what that Cindy thinks."

"It's an obvious place, really. Anyone with the ability to _think_ would have realized it."

That set him off; simply because it was Rook, and his temperament didn't have the patience - nor the etiquette - in dealing with my response. I was certain he would kill me. Be it now or later, the instinct was blatantly distinguishable from any other, and all I did was tilt my head in a fashion that encouraged his advance. He appeared to tower over me, though the difference in our heights was nothing so dramatic. Hands on his hips, expression particularly cocky.

"What was that, professor?" He became a sizable monster with his feral smirk. "Don't piss yourself tryin' to answer now."

I swallowed hard.

Of all the Dragon Corps, this one alone dug particularly deep beneath the skin. Perhaps it was some underlying psychosis, wrought by infamy of th'Esar's own support, and thus, the inability to do _no_ wrong. My presence only deepened the hostility, a blow to a child from a father who never once bothered to punish those indiscretions.

"You see--"

"There you are." Clear distinction in that voice, and my heart - now nearly in my feet - settled itself neatly back into place. _Chief Sergeant Adamo_. "Figured you'd been hauled off to an untimely death of sorts when no one'd found you."

Rook snorted, but surprisingly kept whatever comments he had to himself.

"Yes," I answered. "Here I am regardless."

"Right." Adamo didn't seem at all pleased with the unfolding situation; not that there was much to go on - his face hardly changed. "You've got a visitor waiting." Then, he turned and left without further explanation, obviously having abandoned me to my own problems: though an unspoken escape it happened to be.

"Ah," I said, making it a point to move past Rook and follow him out the door as quickly as possible. If he gave any intention of doing the same, I didn't notice. It was a curious thing, to be called upon when I had been at the Airman not even a week's time. I pressed my lips together.

My glasses would have to wait.

 

 

**BALFOUR**

 

Jeannot had taken my gloves again.

It was of -- of a propriety to keep one's wits sharp, I thought; not soft. At the very least, I was sincerely glad they had not volunteered my alarm clock for scrap parts as they had the morning of the 'Versity professor's arrival. Being late - later than usual, as it happened to be - would not do. And peering into a corridor, my fingers worried at themselves in place of those absent things of mine.

I could hear them, loud and uncaring as always: it made me nervous. Quite early in the day, too. Edging closer one slow step at a time helped to encourage the nerves into settling, but not nearly enough so as to prepare me for _them_. I was still the newest of the Dragon Corps, though old enough now not to be bothered with such initiating rituals as a certain...guest experienced in my stead. I felt deeply sorry; I'd apologize once I saw him.

"Had a busy night, did you?"

That was Niall, Compagnon's laughter second to his question - a waking up to my mistake. I'd walked in without the slightest care to detail, paying for it with the worst of inquiries. I tugged at the sleeve of my coat, half shrugging with a shoulder as I stepped around a haphazardly placed book on the floor. (The spine was broken, pages bent and torn. Raphael wouldn't be pleased when he found it.) I sat far from them, close to the Ivory-less piano with my hands in my lap.

"Leave him alone," Ace said, aiming the dart he held. "Makes you sound jealous you didn't get nothin'."

"Just because he's gone and won the thing we had going on the professor."

"I think it's clever," Luvander piped, strolling in as though he owned the room.

I slouched a little, wishing to be invisible. Or clueless as to what they spoke of. Having been part of those -- those incidents, it was all I could do to hope for the best. He seemed capable enough, the professor's persistence a sort of admirable quality I had immediately liked. The others doubted him, but it really had been an evident location - most anyone (knowing the culprits) would have sorted it out. As for me, I had yet to see Jeannot to ask after my gloves.

"Is that _all_ you can say?" complained Niall, face twisting a little as he inspected Ace's throw. Luvander's comment must have distracted him, it didn't look like it counted, but I kept quiet.

"In any case," Luvander went on, completely ignoring Niall with a flourish of his hand, "we should give him what he's won."

When his eyes landed on me, strangely intense in their amusement, I felt the color drain from my face. I knew that look, and there was never a good circumstance I could remember to come of it. The backs of my legs hit the edge of the chair most awkwardly as I stood in a rush, thumb and forefinger twisting into the cuff of my sleeve rather abruptly. Everyone who was anyone was staring now, except for Compagnon: he was giggling quite fiercely.

"Oh." My voice sounded flat. "T-that's all right. You can keep it."

I made my escape quietly, head down enough so I didn't have to see any of their faces but could keep my course straight. No one bothered to stop me, too distracted laughing at my expense. I was only glad Rook hadn't been there to see any of it. He would have said worse. Perhaps, in the event he was in a terrible mood, he would have _done_ worse. I'd quickly learned the best alternative was to filter his words into something more tolerable and less degrading. (No matter how true they happened to be.) I sighed, fiddling with the edge of my coat this time.

I really wanted my gloves.

For a while, I wandered about the Airman with this exact thought; the possibility I could find Jeannot still in his bunker was somewhat likely, but I didn't want to risk bothering him. I continued on, occasionally wondering after that and the professor - whether he'd become aware of the others' current game. He must have known. My feet, however, did better than that: they carried me to his little room with the couch and stand-up curtain. I stood adjacent the door, partially dumbfounded and aware of the voices from inside. If I tilted my head, I could see them. One, most distinctly, was the professor's, and the other--

"Marius!"

The moment I decided to peek, I saw something especially not meant to be seen. I turned, quickly making my retreat in the way I'd come, cheeks hot. That was another apology I'd have to give him.

My count then: at least three.

 

 

**THOM**

 

I was finished keeping score of the firsts and their paired seconds by the day I'd stained my face a perpetual shade of blue.

Events prior to that had been an unwelcoming complication, specifically Marius' unexpected arrival and the following occurrences of that late morning. I liked to think my mind - even more so, my mouth - was numbed of that particular experience. I had not spoken of it, instead focusing my energy on the task I'd been given by th'Esar. My own revenge of sorts had deemed almost successful; having the airmen playing roles was an exercise suitable to them and their own capacity towards creativity. In retribution for the things they'd done, I'd secretly returned the favor. My notes had become most amusing - enough so I was kept busy well into the evening.

By then, I was unexpectedly part of Balfour's company, his demeanor somewhat worn thin.

"Balfour," I said, greeting him with a half smile. Of all the airmen, I liked him a great deal. He'd rescued me more times than I could recall at that point; more so, I thought, than the Chief Sergeant himself.

"I-I am sorry," he murmured, clearly alarmed at something: his skin flushed a lovely red to match the horrid shade on my own. "I'll come back when you're not busy!"

"Um." Sudden with the idea, I spoke to keep him where he was. Clearly, I was not at all occupied. "Your gloves are missing."

"Someone keeps taking them." There was a short pause before he answered, Balfour's fingers curling into his palms. But the tactic _did_ work; he remained there. "I suspect it's Jeannot. He does, ah...like to do that often."

"Oh."

I hadn't been expecting that. Neither had the airman excepted to be so honest, clear in the way he shifted his feet and stood awkwardly in front of me as he stared at his boots. It was silent as I considered what to do, eventually rearranging the papers beside me in an orderly pile before motioning Balfour to join me on the couch. He hesitated, twisting at his hands until the anxiety finally worked its way through his system. He sat on the very edge, prepared to flee if given a cause to. So, we were: side by side and reserved. There wasn't much to offer in the ways of conversation, already having fulfilled the majority of my curiosity.

Still, he did surprise me.

"Luvander's quite right." Balfour spoke with a suddenly intent expression, bare hand out to hover over the blue stain now part of my features. He seemed about to say something else – the particulars I wasn't too clear on, not now – but he pressed his lips together instead. "It is rather...dashing. T-that is to say, on you."

There was no insult as there had been with Luvander, as if I had missed the private joke. And I had all but opened my mouth in reply when he closed the distance between us to press his lips - hurriedly, clumsily - to mine. The shock of it stiffened my spine, lungs ceasing to work as the taste worked its way across my tongue. Somehow, in the confusion, Balfour's hands had curled themselves into my shirt, worrying at a button and tugging the material tight as he would had he his gloves. All of it was strangely alarming and soothing at once, the affection unexpected but different.

I tried to break it apart as I would a 'Versity exam, untangle all the larger details into something simpler and faster to process. I got as far as the warmth of his chest pressing into my arm when realization finally snapped my senses into reaction. I pulled away, pulse pounding in my ears.

"P-please don't tell."

Balfour sounded horrified _and_ heart-broken. Perhaps for the very reason I knew this could never get out among the airmen, and it began with a very enunciated, bold 'R'. I reached out to grasp his hand, keeping him from wrenching the tips of his fingers off and giving it a quick squeeze of reassurance.

"I should have expected it," I said, earning a rather perplexed look until embarrassment overpowered even that. Balfour looked away, withdrawing into that previously quiet moment we'd shared. Our hands were still interlocked, and I hadn't the energy to detach myself. Or send him on his way with little more than polite farewell. We remained there, an awkward pair of colors in stunned silence.

"I really am sorry," he eventually mumbled after several minutes, relief in his words despite the apology.

The corners of my mouth lifted ever so slightly.

"It's no, er, trouble at all. Really."

I didn't want to think about what would come next - the repeats, suffice to say, were enough to last me a life time. It was a great lie, and I laughed at myself for it.


End file.
